Collision
by Showers' Inc
Summary: The snowy terrain of the Hundred Pillars in Tevinter sees the reunion of several friends. Takes place after events of the comic "Those Who Speak," though not completely necessary to know it. Canons explained in chapters as needed; I'm also willing to answer any questions! Alistair/(F-Cousland)Warden, Hawke(male)/Fenris. Includes Isabela, Varric, Sten, Oghren, Sigrun, and Dog.
1. Chapter 1

_Collision_

* * *

Location: Tevinter Imperium, west trails of The Hundred Pillars.

Time: The Dragon Age 9:38, two months after the events of _Those Who Speak_ (8-9 years after the Fifth Blight)

Canon: Alistair is King of Ferelden, sharing the throne with his Queen, Sophia (Sophie) Cousland. Derric Hawke, an apostate mage and Champion of Kirkwall, sided with the mages during the Battle of Kirkwall. -More canon to be filled in as story progresses-

Companions: **Alistair**-Sten-Isabela-Varric, **Sophie**(Warden)-Oghren-Gatsby(name given to Mabari)-Sigrun, **Hawke**-Fenris

* * *

Chapter One

"You're sure this is the best approach to Perivantium?" Alistair asked wearily.

The man had been trying his best to maintain his composure as the group traveled along the rough trails. Of course, he had to endure worse before over his years, but it was one the edge of two months' travel through the outskirts of the Tevinter Imperium. With all of the magical energies that seemed to float in the air, his skin had been crawling nearly every second since they landed on the coast.

"Sorry to disappoint, oh King," Varric joked, "but unless you want a magister's staff up your nethers before you can even blink, this is probably the best idea. Right, Rivaini?"

Isabela huffed a laugh, though no one could be particularly certain. The rogue woman was covered in a thick cloak up to her nose, and silently regretting not being better equipped for their recent travel. The Arishok gave her the garment once he noticed her shivering. Though whether it was an act of kindness or simply a way to stop her possible complaints remained to be seen. The cloak continued to drag behind her in the deep snow, leaving a snake-like trail in the fresh powder.

Varric laughed heartily. "You know, I never thought I'd see the day this girl had a problem with weather. For a sea farer, you'd think you've seen everything."

"Oh, I've seen everything," Isabela pulled down the cloak enough to answer. "Doesn't mean I have to like all of it."

"Good point."

"I suppose it's no worse than the Frostbacks," Alistair said thoughtfully, shaking his head to loosen some wet flakes from his blond hair. "Though we were underground for most of that adventure …"

Sten suddenly held up a hand, looking pointedly in front of them. He had been leading the trek without much commentary. Alistair was used to the Qunari's regular intervals of not speaking. He and his other companions did pretty well at filling the void among themselves. His motion to stop was the first any had noticed in some time. Immediately silencing, the others stopped behind the large Arishok. They listened and watched with intensity, trying to notice what he had.

The steady wind muted a lot of the sound for Alistair. Aside from conversations and steady crunching of snow underfoot, he heard nothing out of the ordinary. Sten was always overly-cautious, so maybe he had just heard an animal pass by. A few moments and they would be on their way again …

Sten's hand went to the hilt of his beloved sword Asala. The king of Ferelden reached for his longsword at his waist. Varric already had Bianca straddled in his arms, loaded and ready. Isabela pulled the cloak away silently, bringing her two daggers up to complete her fighting stance.

All of them had heard it at this point. Crunching of snow, not from their movements, a deep voice muttering as the heavy steps headed toward them. The trees ahead kept them from fully seeing the approaching party, but they had to be ready.

A deep bark nearly made Alistair jumped. He had to count it to nerves and slight homesickness, because he could have sworn he recognized that bark.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** (I always forget to put this on my first chapters.) I do not own the rights to Dragon Age or any of its lore, though this story is of my own ideas. Rights go to David Gaider and the creators of the Dragon Age series and all of its medias (which are all touched on to some extent in this story.). Thank you all for providing such an amazing world for me to write about! Hopefully I do it some justice. -Showers' Inc

* * *

Location: Tevinter Imperium, west trails of The Hundred Pillars

Time: The Dragon Age 9:38, 7 years after Darkspawn Civil War of Ferelden ended (8-9 years after the Fifth Blight)

Canon: Sophia (Sophie) Cousland is Warden-Commander/queen of Ferelden, sharing the throne with Alistair Theirin.

Companions: Sophie(Warden)-Oghren-Gatsby(name given to Mabari)-Sigrun

* * *

Chapter Two

"Just like home, eh, Oghren?" Sophie laughed as she brushed more snow off of the shoulders of her chainmail armor.

Her dwarf friend huffed as he readjusted the war hammer on his back. "If this soddin' thing would quit pulling me down, I'd probably be laughing, too."

"Actually, I'd count the ale in your pack as what's weighing you down," Sigrun smirked at Sophie. "We saw you slip some at the last town."

"It's not my fault these mages don't know how to drink! Takes twenty pints before I even get fuzzy!"

"You seem pretty fuzzy all the time," the Warden-Commander jabbed her fellow Grey Warden in the side with her elbow.

The past years had brought so many changes forth for Sophie Cousland. She was now the "Hero of Ferelden," the Warden-Commander, the _queen_. Though that last title seemed undeserving for the time being. Teagan and Eamon were left in charge of Ferelden politics more often than not for the past three years, mostly due to the continuing absence of herself and her husband.

She felt more at home managing the workings of the Ferelden Grey Wardens, anyway. To Sophie, continuing their patrols and watching for any unusual activity during the Thaw were the most important things to attend to. Granted, they hadn't sighted a darkspawn on the Ferelden surface for nearly two years. The news of possible openings in The Hundred Pillars of Tevinter Imperium came as a relief to her and her remaining Grey Wardens. It gave them a chance to use their abilities again, to be who they were meant to be.

Howe was now left in charge of the maintaining of Vigil's Keep and the remaining area, though Sophie considered him more of a "casual" Warden nowadays. After saving her older brother's life, however, she could never guilt him for it. He was in the process of having his own family. The last time they talked, before Sophie and her group were to leave for the Free Marches and onward, he was practically giddy over the confirmation of baby number three with his lovely wife.

Velanna disappeared after the battle at the Keep. Several witnesses accounted that she had a stone wall break upon her, but clearly the rubble proved fruitless. The elf woman was simply gone. Sophie liked to think she staged the event, looking to reunite with her sister, Seranni. The voyages around the entrances of the Deep Roads after the Thaw were specifically in hopes of seeing if there were signs of Velanna passing through. One mage taking on the entirety of darkspawn in the Deep Roads was inconceivable, but if any held the ability, it would have been Velanna. Unfortunately, Sophie and the others never found a sign she had been hoping for.

Justice left the Wardens shortly after their final battle in Amaranthine, which Sophie agreed to somewhat reluctantly. Despite the fact that he was indeed a corpse, she enjoyed having him around as a sound conscience for the group. She was the first to admit that she was more prone to feed emotion into her decisions, not rationality. He turned down her offer to stay with them, and, a couple of years later, the Wardens heard news of the body of Kristoff being "deposited" on his wife's doorstep. Kristoff was finally able to be put to rest, yet there seemed to be no sign of Justice's spirit. All Sophie could hope was that her friend found his peace.

Anders … Anders changed. The young mage held a lot of potential, and he seemed more than willing to show it off. There were discussions of him training fellow mages as they entered into the Order, but Sophie always joked that he would teach them nothing but fancy escaping tricks. For several reasons, Anders reminded the Warden-Commander greatly of her husband, cracking jokes and answering serious situations with sarcasm and playful ignorance. He practically single-handedly kept the darkspawn at bay at the Keep, so he was one of the most popular Wardens to date. Anders stayed with the Order for two years before he began to become more quiet and withdrawn. One night, as they were drinking together at the Keep, he confessed that he didn't feel he was fulfilling his purpose if he stayed with the Wardens. Especially after some of the other Wardens forced him to get rid of that silly cat, he felt more alone than ever there. Sophie hated hearing that her close friend felt so detached, but there was nothing she could do to make him feel differently. Three nights before he disappeared, she hugged him and told him to find whatever he believed his destiny to be; he had her blessing. Part of her still wondered if he would have stayed if she had said something different.

Sigrun claimed that she was to go meet her end, much to Sophie's worry. She never had the heart to ask where the Legion of the Dead member went, figuring it was something to do with her Legion's traditions. On one occasion, Sophie and her group found her in the midst of a resistance pocket of darkspawn near an abandoned thaig entrance. The dwarf and Warden-Commander mad it an on-going joke that the two would be each other's end, not some weakling darkspawn. Thankfully, despite how often she would disappear, Sigrun always returned to the Keep, demanding a drink and some time with her friend Sophie.

And Oghren had been and always would be Oghren. It was incredible to see the dwarven man remain almost exactly the same since Sophie met him in Orzammar eight years ago. Having the chance to show his abilities gained him quite the fan-base within the Order, where people would find him in the dining hall after their travels. There, everyone would try their damnedest to drink equally what he did. Few ever succeeded. He and Felsi agreed to have him stay in contact with his young son, also named Oghren. Oghren even began referring to his boy as Oggie, much to Sophie's amusement. She was glad he was able to still be part of his son's life, but she was even happier to have him still with the Order.

So many of her friends had come and went since the events of the Blight, and the aftermath with the Architect and the Mother, but Oghren and Sigrun were the two who had remained faithfully at her side. Because of this, she considered the two of them her best friends.

As if on cue, a nose bumped into her lower thigh, followed by a quick yap of excitement. Her old Mabari, Gatsby, was also at her side. On travels like these, when the wind was harsh and the cold seeped into their bodies, Gatsby would often find a way to sneak into Sophie's bedroll beside her. How he did it without waking her continued to baffle the woman. He barked again with slight urgency, jabbing her with his snout again.

"Gatsby, enough," Sophie said, tapping his nose with two fingers. "What is it?"

The hound snorted in semi-offense before trotting briskly off ahead of them. Sophie's whistle went ignored as his form disappeared into the sheet of white ahead of them. Oghren and Sigrun stopped beside her as she attempted to bring Gatsby to her side again.

"Stubborn mutt," Sophie muttered to herself.

"Do you think he's found something?" Sigrun suggested. "Maybe we're on the edge of another town …"

"No, we would've seen something by now, even with this blowing snow. Unless he caught smell of a nug or something, he hasn't eaten in a while." She turned to Oghren. "Are there nugs in Tevinter?"

The red-headed dwarf shrugged. "How should I know? S'not as if I stepped in Tevinter about as many times I pissed in a cave."

"Pissed in a cave?" Sigrun repeated with a raised eyebrow. "Exactly how many times have you done that?"

Oghren chuckled. "I'm from Orzammar, sister. Caves were pretty much all we got."

Gatsby's bark cut off their conversation abruptly. Sophie drew her longsword and dagger while Sigrun prepared her dirk and axe. Oghren's hammer was held ready above his head. Together, the three slowly followed after the Warden-Commander's Mabari.


	3. Chapter 3

Location: Tevinter Imperium, west trails of The Hundred Pillars.

Time: The Dragon Age 9:38, two months after the events of _Those Who Speak_ (8-9 years after the Fifth Blight)

Companions: **Alistair**-Sten-Isabela-Varric

* * *

Chapter Three

"Should we say something?" Alistair whispered to his companions.

Probably not the best idea at the time, considering the fact that the group continued to slightly shift closer to the trees, weapons at the ready. Truthfully, he was hoping they would just catch some fellow travelers who had no intention to harm them. He had no clue how truly powerful the magisters of Tevinter could be. Of course, they knew of the men and women who staked their claims at elegant balls, but to find a magic wielder who wasn't concerned about "societal standards" worried him.

"Don't mind us, just passing through to go kill a magister that could probably be considered godlike around these parts," Varric muttered.

"That way they'll think we're only _slightly_ insane," Isabela answered softly. "It's the perfect plan."

"The mockery is unnecessary, but thank you," Alistair sighed. "I get the point."

That was when Varric suddenly fired an arrow. A hard _thunk_ broke the silence, followed by a frightened squeak from the trees. Alistair caught figures shifting among the trunks. Sten ran forward without a sound, breaking the treeline. Isabela disappeared in a blur. Varric was already firing another arrow. It seemed the "quiet approach" was no longer a concern …

"What is it?" he demanded.

"Shades," Varric explained quickly. "You don't see them?"

Alistair ran off after Isabela and Sten, with Varric advancing steadily with Bianca. Sten's call of battle seemed to shake the trees before the clang of blade on blade caught his ears. This rang false in his mind as he met the tree line. Shades didn't use weapons. They were demons, manifested from the Fade … why in Thedas would they ever use weaponry? Isabela's shout brought him out of his thoughts, and he sprinted toward the sound.

The Ferelden King was startled to see Isabela battling with a female dwarf. A helmet covered most of her face, but Alistair could see the beginnings of facial tattoos under her chin. She was a Ferelden dwarf. As he ran toward them, a hard mass crashed into his right side, sending him to the ground. The landing knocked his breath from him, but there was no time to gasp. His left arm was searing. Pain racked his thoughts as he instinctually began hitting at the attacker.

Somehow, his eyes came into focus to see the jaws of a huge Mabari hound clamped around his arm. The creature was biting down as hard as it could, cutting into his flesh. Alistair continued cuffing the Mabari hard at the side of its head. He had to try and loosen its grip, or there would be a strong chance it would break his bones. A few seconds of agonizing gnashing of teeth, and Alistair was finally able to shove the hound away from him.

Rushing to stand up, he ignored the shouting nerves of his left arm as he braced himself against it to get to his feet. Blood began to run steadily down into his hand. The sensation gave him shivers, but he was hardly able to react to it before his senses flared to take defense. His longsword barely blocked an attack from his right side. Clang of metal on metal gave him another moment to focus on his newest attacker, though he hardly believed it when he was able to see them.

Well, her. Her being Sophia Cousland-Theirin, his _wife_, to be more specific. It had been almost two years since he had seen her. The elation to see her again evaporated as her dagger cut from her left hand, aimed directly at his side. Alistair managed to side-step just enough to avoid injury, though the slash tore at his clothes with vicious force.

"Sophie!" he cried, startled at the continuing attack. "Sophia, it's me!"

He brought the flat side of his longsword up to deflect her own blade, but her dagger met its mark, sinking into the flesh of his right hip. His hand then clutched hers as she tried to push the blade in deeper. Sophie was remarkably strong from her years of training, yet somehow he managed to pull her hand away from the hilt. Arm slashed nearly to the bone, dagger blade digging into his hip … it was turning out to be quite the reunion.

Extracting the blade was painful, though successful. Alistair tossed the dagger into the snow away from the two of them as Sophie began to brace for another attack with her longsword. The man brought up his own sword reluctantly. This was the woman he had loved for eight years. Now, she stood before him with unveiled rage in her hazel eyes, glowing red around their irises. Her Beserker, as Oghren called it when he taught her the technique, was now in full-force.

"Sophie, it's me, Alistair," he tried desperately. "Please, love, these are my friends. I swear it on the throne, it's me, dear …"

Sophie's blade slacked slightly at her side. Alistair was about to sigh with relief when the small handful of powder struck his eyes. Instinctually, he brought his hands up to his face to swipe at the irritant, struggling not to be taken in by the effects of his beloved's stunning powder. A firm kick to his already weak right side brought him to his knees. The king of Ferelden dropped heavily, his weight sinking into the snow as he blinked away the last of the powder. He fought to catch his breath before feeling the cold metal of Sophie's longsword meet his throat.

The thin trickle of his own blood contrasted the chilled pressing of the blade, causing a violent shiver to travel down his spine. How could this be happening? Sophie, his wife, his everything, was going to kill him … _Why?_

Her inhale was sharp. As if in slow-motion, Alistair saw three arrows strike her chestplate, right at her heart. Two were deflected by the strength of her armor, but the third protruded from her chest, as if it were another appendage. Her hands dropped to her side, dragging her longsword lightly across Alistair's throat. He could hardly react to the new cut as Sophie's eyes met his, an innocent horror overtaking her expression as the red faded away.

"A—Alistair?" she whispered before dropping to the ground in front of him.


	4. Chapter 4

Location: Tevinter Imperium, west trails of The Hundred Pillars

Time: The Dragon Age 9:38, one year after the Battle of Kirkwall

Canon: After siding with the mages in the Battle of Kirkwall, the Champion, Derric Hawke, has been traveling with Fenris, a former elf slave of Tevinter

Companions: Hawke(male)-Fenris

* * *

Chapter Four

"I never thought I'd have to deal with snow again," Hawke sighed heavily as he brushed his hand through his black hair. His gloves were further dampened by the gesture, but he was getting tired of the snow melting and the water running into his face as they walked.

Fenris continued quietly beside him. Hawke knew the elf had heard him, but he didn't push for conversation. The snow atop his head slowly darkening his white hair as it melted, and his bare feet left small tracks, with a thin line in between them from the greatsword that was strapped to his back. He hardly let the weight of his blade distract him as they walked. The "Blade of Mercy," as he called it before, had been one of the few things he kept close since Hawke found it for him. Hawke found the name fitting for Fenris, as an elven man who once hated mages and ended up fighting for their freedom in Kirkwall. Of course, he knew that was because of Hawke, not the actual cause. Fenris was incredible in that way.

Though, Hawke felt like he was on a slippery slope with his lover the past months. Coming to the Tevinter Imperium was literally the last place Fenris had wanted to return to in his life. The only reason he came was because Hawke selfishly stated a borderline ultimatum: either come with him to Minrathous, or it was incredibly possible the two would never see each other again. The mage knew how unfair such a statement was, even when he had said it, but he felt like there was no other choice. However, if the events of Kirkwall a year ago had taught him anything, it was that one's personal life had to be put to the side for some causes. Admittedly, the idea of separating from Fenris was painful …

But Fenris came with him. As he had always done. Hawke was thankful he didn't leave him, though the man knew he deserved it. In all actuality, a part of him was hoping that Fenris would refuse, so he didn't feel the unease weigh on them as they traveled. Fenris had every right to hate Tevinter Imperium, and bringing him back here was to be considered one of the worst things Hawke had done, at least in his own mind.

They had been traveling for about two months' time to reach this point in Tevinter. Their travels would have probably been slightly shorter if they cut a different path to Minrathous, but Hawke felt it best to avoid the cities and villages as they went on. He only sought civilization when the two were running short on supplies, and, even then, Fenris never came with him. Hawke and he would determine a meeting place where the elf could keep his distance, so Hawke could meet with him to continue on their way. Part of him always prepared for Fenris not to be there once he returned, but he was always where they agreed, his lyrium markings glowing faintly as he watched for anyone approaching.

Here, along one of the trails of mountains of the Hundred Pillars, it seemed no one had disturbed the snow in some time. The mage counted this a good thing for the two of them.

"Want to play the guessing game again?" Hawke attempted to joke.

Fenris all but rolled his eyes as he responded, "Hawke …"

"Oh, come on. It's something to do, isn't it?"

"And there's two things you always suggest."

"I'm hardly that predictable, Fenris."

"Is that so?"

"Very much so."

He sighed, relenting. "What color is it?"

"White," Hawke answered quickly.

"It is snow."

"No."

"Then it's my hair."

"You are good at this game!"

Fenris shook his head, but Hawke caught the hint of a smile on his face. "I think you're simply out of things to stare at. When you describe something as 'pointy,' it's either my ears or the tip of my sword."

"I never mind staring at you, Fenris," Hawke smirked at him.

Fenris's chuckle was barely audible, but Hawke was glad to get a response out of him. They continued walking side by side as the snow swirled lazily around them. Thankfully, the wind had not been too harsh, so their cloaks were enough to keep them warm. Hawke had tried to find boots for Fenris at one point, but the elf refused. He briefly explained that his time with Danarius led him through all kinds of weather and terrain, and he never given any footwear; his feet were used to just about anything. All the same, Hawke kept a close eye on him, knowing full well that Fenris was not one to point out being in pain or discomfort willingly. Someone had to watch for him.

They caught the sound, simultaneously turning their heads to the left. The snow was falling in heavy enough flakes to block their view down the slope, but the sound of distant voices managed to drift up in their direction. A laugh broke over the wind before it was quiet again. Fenris turned to look at his traveling partner, his eyes asking for them to move further up the mountain, to go around the potential travelers. Hawke had to agree, it was better to avoid confrontation out here, but something kept him from moving upward. Something down the slope had his senses on edge; something wasn't right …

A dim glow cut through the white of the snow, and slowly expanded. Fenris put his arm out in front of Hawke, forcing him beck several paces. They were both able to recognize that it was not natural light, but one from a mage's staff. Hawke put his hand on Fenris's arm to stop him, still looking down at the glow.

"There's no need, Hawke," Fenris whispered angrily. "We should move on."

"It's not casting at us," he explained. "He's focused on something else. I don't think he's fighting, though. Listen."

The crack of steel against steel echoed around them, but the glow was constant, not disturbed from attack. As a mage, Hawke knew how hard it was to maintain a spell when people were fighting around you. Once you became a target, you had a second to cast before you had to focus on your attacker, or risk being extremely vulnerable while you tried to sustain a spell. It wasn't worth the risk. The mage below them was out of danger's way, perhaps not even casting spells to help any of those fighting.

"He's casting, but not fighting…" Hawke muttered, trying to understand what the mage could be doing.

"Can we not just go around?" Fenris snapped. "Clearly there's a fight that has nothing to do with us."

"Then just stay here. I need to see what's—"

"Hawke, no."

"We can either deal with a magister now while he's distracted with someone else, or we can go about our way, wait for him to find our tracks, follow us, and then attack us when we least expect it. Wouldn't you just rather be done with it?"

Fenris's eyebrows furrowed irritably as he looked at the man. Hawke sighed and placed a hand on his cheek. The elf instinctively flinched from the contact, but did not shy away from Hawke's hand. He looked into the mage's eyes, frustrated.

"I can go on my own, and be back shortly," Hawke said quickly. "You don't have to risk yourself at all."

"Neither do you," Fenris growled.

Hawke laughed quietly as he pulled away from his lover. "Oh, Fenris, you know me. I've never been good at minding my own business."

With that, he pulled his staff off of his back to quietly move toward the source of the spell. Fenris was beside him in a few seconds. Hawke felt the need to tell him to go back, to save himself from the discomfort, but he knew it was fruitless. Fenris would follow because he wanted to ensure himself that Hawke was all right. The two walked quietly downward, seeing a grove of trees come into their sights. The sounds of fighting had become louder, but they still couldn't see the people. After another minute of walking, the glow of the tip of a mage's staff became their beacon. It was on the edges of the trees, pointed the opposite direction.

The mage's back was to them, clearly more concerned about the hidden fighters in the trees for the time being. Hawke and Fenris looked to one another again, then nodded. They approached in near silence, nothing but the soft crunching of the snow to give them away. Thankfully, the mage made no indication that he heard anything.

Robes of thick animal fur covered the slight man's figure. He stood taller than Hawke, but not nearly as broad. He was a man of "royal figure," as Fenris described once. The mage was used to having someone else to fight for him, not one who would be out in the forests and mountains, covered in snow, on his own. Approaching him was simple enough, and Hawke had slipped his simple dagger from his belt, ready to attack. Fenris's touch held him from his attack.

He pointed out. Through the trees, to Fenris's left, he could see a familiar figure. The distinct blonde hair was wet from snow, his brown leather coattails left a small trail behind him. His tell-tale sign was the look on his face Hawke had seen time and time again in their travels together. The look on his face was one of contentment, a perfect combination of focus and happiness as he held his most prized possession in his hands, his crossbow. Bianca, his one and only love.

Varric Tethras stood in the trees as if it was perfectly natural.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Alistair struggled to reach his wife, who was now a motionless heap on the ground.

Hundreds of thoughts passed through his mind at once, every scenario flashed in an agonizing reel, each more painful than the last. She wasn't dead, she _couldn't _be dead. The thought alone was enough to strike him motionless. He wanted to shout her name, shake her until her eyes opened, anything to prove those thoughts wrong. Instead, he remained knelt in the snow, his arms slack at his sides. His injuries faded into numbness.

_Come on, Alistair,_ he thought. _Move. She needs you …_

Before he could gather himself enough, a furry mass had returned in front of him. The Mabari hound blocked Alistair's path to Sophie, crouched in a deadly position with his muscles tensed and ready. Gatsby, Alistair was finally able to realize, was defending Sophie from him. The hound barked viciously and snapped his jaws in the man's direction.

"Gatsby," Alistair panted, suddenly exhausted. "It's me, old mutt. Don't you remember?"

A deep growl came from the Mabari's chest, his second warning. He barely moved, staring into Alistair's eyes, waiting for him to move. There was no way the creature would allow him to come near his master. Alistair had witnessed on more than once occasion Gatsby hurl himself between Sophie and something or someone he felt was a danger to her. He would die before he allowed Sophie to come to any more harm.

"Please, Gatsby," he breathed, feeling more drained by the second. If Sophie … "Just move aside. Let me see her."

The Mabari's jaws snapped as he slowly raised his right hand. Damned warhounds. Sophie would never forgive him, but he felt all of his options leave him swiftly. As Gatsby would do anything to protect his master, Alistair would do anything to reach his wife. He quietly apologized to her and the hound before reaching for his longsword.

* * *

"A mage who uses spell to force other people to fight?" Hawke commented with a loud laugh. "Interesting strategy. Cowardly, certainly, but interesting."

The tall mage seemed to jump out of his skin. He whirled around to see a broad-shouldered, dark-haired man standing with his own mage staff in his hands. The deadly curved blade at the top of the staff reflected the glow of the mage's spell, a scythe fit for an angel of death. Fear beyond measure spiked in the man when he saw the dark-haired mage's partner, a white-haired elf that glowed a vivid blue, veins of lyrium coursing over his skin brightly.

He had yet to bother bringing his massive sword into his hands, but the mage stumbled back reflexively. The elf's eyes flared with hatred and anger, and advanced toward him.

"Why are you here?" he demanded in a steely voice.

"I—I was just passing by," the mage squeaked. His staff was no longer glowing, his spell stopped. Movement through the trees slowed. Hawke looked up to see Varric pause in his fighting stance, a look of confusion coming over him. "I meant no harm!"

"That hardly seems true," Hawke answered. "By the looks of things, you were trying to get those people to kill each other."

"They were walking into each other, so I … I suppose I—"

"Would speed up the process? Let them fight it out then take home what was left of them? Again, smart idea, but it just happens that one of those people is a friend of ours."

The mage's face went from fear to a forced smirk. His grip tightened on his staff, and the glow returned. Hawke wasn't sure if he was stalling for time or if he actually—

His thought was cut short as a quick blur came in front of him. The man barely had time to bring his staff up and block the two brilliant daggers that were directed at his head. Isabela's speed was astonishing. Hawke concentrated his thoughts, and sent them outward. His bind blast spell sent Isabela stumbling back, but the pirate recovered in less than a second. She all but disappeared in front of him before he sensed an attack to his left side. Hawke stumbled back, a gash on his arm erupting blood.

"Isabela!" he shouted, trying to get her to focus on him.

Hawke was not one to underestimate his friend. If he wasn't able to snap her out of the spell that was cast on her, it was entirely possible she would kill him.

* * *

Varric shook his head, looking in front of him. The shades seemed to flicker in his vision, like a flame from a candle. There had been four of them, occupying each of his fellow travelers. Long, grotesque arms lashed out, deep purple, almost black flesh melding into claws where a normal man would have fingers. The creatures floated above the ground with their heads hunched forward, a single bright, glowing eye glaring out from their hoods.

The dwarf was always the most unnerved when in the presence of shades. But seeing all of them falter at once was strange. Alistair had been fighting two … well, if one could consider it fighting. Maybe the king was losing his fighting skills over the years, but he seemed to be on the defense the entire exchange. A quick rhyming triplet from Bianca dropped one, but the second was looming over Alistair as he sat on his knees. He was slowly reaching for his longsword when Varric saw the shift.

The shade towering over Alistair flickered into a Mabari with black markings throughout its fur. It stood in front of a woman who was crumpled on the ground. Varric heard Alistair apologize quietly as his longsword came up. Something wasn't right here.

"Wait!" Varric called out.

Alistair paused, though he didn't take his eyes away from the Mabari. The hound did the same, a menacing growl erupting from him. Varric went to take a step forward, but was forced back as Isabela suddenly ran by. She went just beyond the trees to his right. He noticed a fully armored female dwarf leaning against the trunk of a tree, breathing heavily. Hard grunts made him look across the treeline, where he could see the Arishok swinging his sword at a red-headed dwarf, who was blocking and returning his own attacks with a gigantic hammer.

The shades had disappeared, leaving this group in their place. Maker's piss, what was going on?

"Isabela!" someone shouted. There was some urgency and surprise in the voice, but it was unmistakable.

Derric Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, was on the other side of those trees.

* * *

Hawke threw a stonefist spell at Isabela to knock her to the ground. Her daggers had already met his flesh three times in mere seconds. Frankly, the man was tired of being cut open. The pirate rogue remained on the ground, a small groan escaping her. Before she gathered herself again, Hawke heard a sickening sound.

Fenris held his fist inside of the mage for a moment before spurts of blood came from his mouth, nose, and ears. The elf pulled his hand away, his claw-like gauntlet now streaked with red. Hawke was fascinated by Fenris's phasing ability, but he had to admit that witnessing it still sent cold shivers down his spine. For a moment, the mage stood on unsteady feet. He looked down to the gap in the robes, to the hole in his chest. Then he dropped to the ground, dead.

"Enough," Fenris growled.

"Thank you," Hawke sighed before walking over to his fallen friend. "Isabela? Are you all right?"

"If I wasn't feeling like … every rib was broken right now … I would swear I was dreaming," she said slowly. "Is that really you, Hawke?"

"Of course," Hawke laughed. "You know no one can impersonate me, my dear. Are you really hurt? Hold on a moment …"

A quick healing spell got Isabela sitting back up, brushing snow off of her shoulders and hair. She took Hawke's offered hand; he pulled her to her feet and into a hug. Isabela laughed and thumped her friend's back. She hit Hawke's shoulder playfully as they came apart, looking at him and Fenris, who was occupied with cleaning his gauntlet with some snow.

"The Champion of Kirkwall, in the middle of the damned mountains of Tevinter," she joked. "It must be my lucky day. Good to see you, Fenris."

"I'm glad you're all right," Fenris nodded in her direction.

"Fenris speak for he missed you, I'm sure," Hawke chuckled.

"Thought I recognized that voice!" Varric's voice practically boomed as he came through the trees, unable to contain his excitement. "Chuckles!"

"Thought I recognized that chest hair!" Hawke immediately answered. "Varric!"

The dwarf and mage hugged, laughing happily. Varric then went over and clasped hands with Fenris, who was grinning rather broadly himself.

"And Elf! What in the name of nugs are you two doing out here?" he asked.

"We should ask you the same," Hawke said.

"We're with Alistair and the Arishok," Isabela replied, suddenly remembering the rest of their party. "Are they all right? The shades—"

Varric shook his head. "Not real. Something was making us see shades. But we better go check on them."

"Wait, wait," Hawke demanded, throwing up his hands. "You mean to tell me that Isabela is _willingly_ traveling with a Qunari? And an _Arishok_, on top of it? I feel like that would be on the top of the list for 'things to avoid' for you …"

"We'll explain everything later," Varric laughed. "We may need your help right now, though."

* * *

"Warden-Commander!" Sigrun called worriedly.

The dwarf pulled her helmet away and dropped it beside her. She recognized King Alistair, her commander's husband, as he sat on his knees near her, Gatsby blocking his path. The hound was blinking furiously and looked confused, but he would not move from his position. Alistair had his longsword in his right hand, preparing.

"Gatsby, stand down!" Sigrun ordered. "It's all right."

Reluctantly, the Mabari eased out of his attack stance. He huffed in Alistair's direction before turning to look at his master. Sigrun reached Sophie first, but Alistair finally shuffled to her side. The Legionnaire of the Dead dropped down beside the woman, carefully turning her onto her back. Alistair remained on Sophie's other side, searching desperately in the snow around her.

"No blood, by the looks of it," she said in an attempt to be reassuring, though her voice cracked with strain. "We need to try to get her armor off, see if … if the arrow penetrated or not. King, can you help me unstrap her gear? Just get the other side."

Alistair's hands were shaking uncontrollably and the blood from his left arm made his fingers slick and clumsy. He released a quivering breath, trying to gather his composure. Terror was racking his thoughts again; he wasn't sure he could see what was under Sophie's breastplate. A hand on his shoulder made him tense up, jerking his head up. Oghren nodded at him. A cut on his cheek oozed blood and he was slightly out of breath, but the dwarf was no worse for wear.

He gently pulled Alistair to the side to kneel next to him. Wordlessly, Sigrun and Oghren worked to remove Sophie's breastplate. Sten's large form seemed to block the snow from them as he stood behind Oghren and Alistair, his arms crossed and staring intently at the unconscious Grey Warden. Gatsby whined and sniffed at Sophie's hair before retreating. The hound began to step from right to left quickly, a panicked whimper coming from his throat.

"Calm down, boy," Alistair finally said. Gatsby whined again before plopping down on his stomach, pressing his nose to the top of Sophie's head.

Sigrun's audible hiss made his heart drop. Blood had collected within Sophie's armor, pooling on her left side where she landed. Now it leaked around Oghren and Alistair's knees, a shocking, vivid red tainting the white of the snow. Alistair fought the urge to be physically sick. Sigrun gulped air, as if she was trying to keep from doing the same. All of them had become so used to injuries and deaths over their lives, but their friends, their companions, their beloveds … seeing them in such states never made it easier.

"All right, um, Oghren," Sigrun sighed. "I need you to … to hold the arrow in place at her chest so I can pull her breastplate away. If the arrow comes up with it, it may cause even more damage."

Oghren reached underneath Sophie's breastplate, gripping the shaft of the arrow that protruded from her right side. Alistair took the left side of the armor, pulling up slowly and in time with Sigrun. Oghren's worried grunt made the two of them freeze.

"Keeps comin' up," he said shakily.

"You must cut the arrow, then," Sten offered in a clipped voice. "Here is a dagger. Cut under the plate."

The red-headed dwarf took the dagger from the Qunari, his hands slightly shaking. He quickly straightened up and went to Sophie's right side, to be nearer to the punctured wound, removing his gauntlets in the process. Alistair and Sigrun held the armor in place while Oghren slipped one hand underneath the plate. He struggled for a moment to put the shaft of the arrow between his fingers, holding it in place. After another deep breath, he slipped the blade of the dagger under his hand, beginning to cut at the thick wood.

Oghren cursed flavorfully and pulled his hand away from under the armor, fresh blood trickling from a cut on his palm.

"Blighted son-of-a-whore!" he growled.

"Hold the arrow up top, Oghren," Sigrun suggested. "It should hold steady enough, and you won't cut yourself. Just cut under the plate, but be careful of Sophie."

Ignoring the blood of his hand, Oghren reached for the shaft of the arrow sticking out above the armor. His fingers gripped it while his right hand carefully slipped the dagger blade under the breastplate. Alistair felt his stomach lurch when the first cut shifted all of their efforts. Sigrun gripped the armor tighter while it seemed like Oghren's hand was about to snap the arrow in two. After some seconds of grunting struggles, The group heard the last snap of the arrow, and Sophie's armor pulled away easily.

Sten took his dagger from Oghren as Alistair and Sigrun put the breastplate aside. The Qunari put a large finger under the Warden-Commander's nose, noticing the ashen look on her pale face. He remembered the woman as fair-skinned, but now, it lacked more color than he had seen it before. The cold air caused goosebumps to prickle over the skin where her undershirt didn't cover. A shallow puff of air met his fingers after a moment, appearing in a small hazy cloud of vapor before quickly vanishing.

"She's breathing," he said. "Lightly, but breathing."

"Is there any hope of waking her?" Alistair asked, returning to his love's side.

"With that arrow where it is, it wouldn't be a good idea," Sigrun explained quietly. "There's a strong chance her lung is punctured. If that's the case, the pain, you don't want her to be awake for."

"Do we take the thing out, then?" Oghren wondered.

"I'm not sure. I'm just not …" Sigrun stopped, putting the back of her hand up to her mouth. Her shaky breath told Alistair of the emotions she was struggling to press down. "Sophie's better at healing research than I am." She leaned over the woman, looking into her slack face. "We're going to be the end of each other, remember? You aren't allowed to leave me this way."

"She's not leaving," Alistair said with as much force as he could muster, though his voice sounded strained and weak. "She's too damn stubborn. That's part of why I fell in love with her. She never just lied down and gave up. You aren't about to start now, love."

The sound of approaching feet brought their heads up to see Varric, Isabela, Fenris, and finally Hawke come into the clearing. Alistair felt some relief as he caught sight of Hawke. It had been over two years since he had seen the man, but he knew of the stories well. The Champion of Kirkwall was a mage, a damn powerful one at that. He straightened up, looking desperately to Hawke.

"Please, help her."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Alistair sat with Sophie's head in his lap. Gatsby refused to move any farther away from the woman than he had to, pacing impatiently as Hawke, Alistair, and Fenris lifted her into the tent. The others quickly busied themselves with preparing the rest of their camp, knowing that they could be there for an undisclosed amount of time. Once the tent was set up, Hawke went inside with Alistair and Gatsby to see the extent of Sophie's damage.

Hawke told Alistair to sit with her, keeping his hand near her nose and mouth to make certain she was still breathing. Gatsby pressed himself against Sophie's left side, laying his head down beside her own. The Ferelden king attempted to shoo him away, but the Mabari stood his ground, growling when the man reached for him.

"He'll be all right," Hawke said as he went to sit on Sophie's right side. "So long as he doesn't attack me while I'm trying to help her."

"I'll make sure," Alistair nodded. "Is there anything else I can do?"

"No offense, King, but I'm not sure you can do much else at this time. This _is_ your wife we're talking about. Just stay here for her, talk to her if that makes you more comfortable. If you need to leave …"

"I'll be fine."

Hawke sighed, but relented. In truth, he hadn't performed extensive healing spells before. He had learned of them through Anders in their days together, but the possessed mage was a natural. Aside from basic healing, he was worried he didn't know enough to truly help the unconscious Grey Warden before him. Seeing Alistair's pained expression, however, told him he had to at least try.

Thankfully, it seemed like her bleeding had stopped for the time being. Half of an arrow still jutted from her right side. Feeling gently around the wound, he realized that the head struck under her clavicle bone, inward from her shoulder socket. Hawke worried that the head managed to puncture her lung, because of her shallow breathing, but he couldn't be certain until the arrow was removed. After a moment of thinking, he looked over to the tent opening.

"Fenris!" Hawke called out.

Wordlessly, the elf appeared. Hawke suspected he had been waiting outside of the tent. As an unspoken bond, the two tended to stay close at hand in case anything were to happen to the other. Gatsby's ears perked up when he came in. The Mabari huffed in his direction, a warning sign. Fenris nodded to him for reassurance before focusing his attention on Hawke.

"With your phasing, do you have the ability to pull something _out_ … of somebody?" Hawke asked.

The elf raised an eyebrow questioningly. "What exactly are you asking?"

"Well, I'm not sure how deep the arrow has gone into her chest. If it punctured a lung, pulling it straight out will cause more damage than already has been done. So, if you could phase the arrow out of her instead of us having to pull it, I may be able to heal her more easily."

Fenris answered after a moment, "I'm able to reach in, but I suppose I never … brought anything out."

"Would you be willing to try?"

"I could attempt."

Hawke looked to Alistair. "Is that all right?"

The man shook his head and shrugged. "If it helps her …" He looked up to Fenris. "Do you think you could do it?"

"I could either remove the arrow, or I could crush her lung in the process."

Blood rushed out of Alistair's face. Hawke glared at Fenris for a moment before focusing his attention on the man.

"We leave it to you," Hawke offered. "Fenris can either phase out the arrow, or we can just pull it out."

Alistair was quiet, weighing the options. He finally nodded, swallowing hard. "Try to phase it."

Fenris walked over to join Hawke on Sophie's right side, kneeling down. He took a moment to inspect the wound, and Hawke could see the slight signs of uncertainty in his eyes. The elf had kept his distance from the woman since they found all of them huddled together in the snow. Over his life, Fenris felt he caused more damage than help in the cases of assisting people. It wasn't in his nature. His companion was trying to convince him otherwise, but the elf knew it for the best that he avoided being near injured people.

He looked over to Hawke in that moment, who forced a small smile and nodded reassuringly. Alistair held his breath as the elf's lyrium veins began to glow, his hand hovering over the arrow. He exhaled slowly, beginning to press his hand past the arrow and into Sophie's chest. His eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he pressed further inside of the woman, his hand disappearing to his wrist.

If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, the king would have scarcely believed the ability possible, even with all he had seen over the years. The moments seemed to pass agonizingly slowly. Gatsby lifted his head, focusing intently on the elf as he worked. Another slow exhale, and he began to lift his hand up. The arrow moved a fraction of an inch, making Fenris stop moving for a moment. Hawke leaned forward, nodding to encourage him. After what felt like an eternity, his hand reappeared with the bloodied arrow between his spiked gauntlet fingers.

A new trail of blood began to ooze from the open wound in Sophie's chest, so Fenris moved away quickly. Hawke returned his hands over the wound, his hands glowing with pale light as he began a healing spell.

"Ah, thank you, love," he grinned. "Well done."

Fenris nodded with his own smile. He placed the arrow on the floor of the tent before looking to Alistair.

"She seems strong …" he offered somewhat awkwardly. "If anyone can survive this, it would be your wife."

"Thank you," Alistair answered wearily.

The elf nodded before turning and leaving quietly. Hawke was muttering to himself softly, closing his eyes. Alistair looked on, feeling more useless as it went on. He asked the Maker to help Hawke, hoping that what he was doing was enough to see Sophie through. It was the best he could do right now. He absently ran his hand through his wife's blonde hair, trying to project calming thoughts to her. A few minutes passed before Hawke opened his eyes. Alistair felt a wave of relief as a smile came to his face.

"It seems to be closing up nicely," he explained happily. "The healing spell helped with the internal injuries, all things considered."

"So she should wake up?" Alistair asked.

He nodded. "Her—what is it called again? The red eyes and scary strength?"

The man chuckled. "Her berserker? A skill she learned from Oghren, the red-headed dwarf out there."

"Yes, it seems to take a lot of energy. Combine that with getting struck with bolts from Bianca and the loss of blood, falling unconscious makes sense. Her body will need a bit of time to recover, but she'll come out no worse for the wear. Fenris was right; she's a strong one."

Alistair grinned. "Always has been. So, Fenris … he's a bit … curt, isn't he?"

"'Insensitive' is the word you're probably looking for," Hawke laughed as he returned his hands to Sophie's wound. "Of course, he wouldn't be Fenris otherwise."

"I suppose you have to appreciate the honesty, though."

"True; Fenris has always been my voice of reason over the years. Sometimes it seems like he's the only one with a head on his shoulders."

"I remember seeing the two of you in Kirkwall. You've been together a long time, then?"

"We've traveled together for broad-side of seven years now. In terms of actually being 'together' …Maker knows, really. Truth be told, I don't think we've ever decided to claim it out loud. No extravagant Ferelden weddings or anything in the like."

Alistair huffed a laugh and shook his head. "Believe me, I could have done without it."

Hawke shrugged. "Royal weddings tend to get everyone excited."

The man looked down at the unconscious woman in his lap, stroking her hair again. "We joked that one of us would find the other huddled in a corner the day of our wedding. Neither of us has been big on being the center of attention; maybe that was why we were such good Grey Wardens. But seeing her that day, in that white dress, her hair done up, those eyes staring at no one else but me ..." He laughed. "You couldn't have wiped the smile from my face if the Maker himself tried. All of that sounds terribly sappy."

"Of course it does," Hawke agreed. "It seems to fit you two quite well. Besides, so much royalty marries for the sake of politics. By the way you speak of her, you actually married her because you love her. That speaks volumes about you, your Majesty."

"You don't have to be so formal with me, Hawke. Considering the fact that you're saving my wife's life, and we're in the middle of a country that I'm not in charge of, I think Alistair's fine. Between you and me, I've never been too keen on the 'your Majesty' or 'your Highness' stuff. Just sounds … strange to me."

"You don't enjoy the masses kissing your feet in exhalation of their great ruler?"

Alistair rolled his eyes. "When a good portion of those masses believe that you lied to get on the throne, you worry about more assassination attempts than kissed boots."

Hawke scoffed. "They honestly didn't believe a king could have a bastard son? He's the king. Eventually, that power will make you feel as if you have immunity from anything in your country lines. You could do whatever you wanted, and nothing would stop you."

"I try not to let it get to my head, I guess."

"That, and I highly doubt your wife would not be one to quietly let you run rampant."

The king laughed. "The most running I would do would be to get away from her. If there's anything I've learned about my wife, it's that you never want to cross her. She's a force to be reckoned with."

A quiet groan came from Sophie's lips. Her eyebrows furrowed momentarily before softening again. Alistair knew she was conscious then, as her eyes were moving rapidly under their lids and her breath was quiet. She was trying assess her surroundings before she allowed her eyes to open. If you pretend to be at your weakest, no one will see you as a threat until it's too late. Zevran had taught her that long ago.

"It's all right, my dear," Alistair offered, running his fingers along her cheek. "It's Alistair."

Before he had a chance to react, the woman's left hand gripped the hand that touched her and the arrowhead that was once inside of her chest was now at his throat, held shakily by her right hand. Alistair tried his best not to move, staring into her hard eyes.

"What are their names?" she demanded softly.

Alistair chanced a look at Hawke, who had his dagger out, ready to strike. The man shook his head slightly before looking back to his wife. The tip of the arrow bit into the skin of his neck. In their short reunion, Alistair was already beginning to lose count of the times his wife drew his blood.

"What are their _names_?" she ordered again, her voice becoming louder.

"Duncan Oren and Bryce Cailan," he answered finally.

His wife's expression immediately faltered as she dropped the arrow. He gave her a moment to straighten up before his arms were around her, pulling her close. Sophie's arms clung around his neck, and muffled sobs came from as she buried her face in his neck. Alistair put a hand to the back of her head, pressing her warmth gently into himself. Taking a deep breath, he mentally pressed down his own emotions.

"It's me, love," he offered with a wavering voice. "I'm right here, Sophie."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Sophie was wondering if she had forgotten what it was like to dream. Ever since the destruction of the Archdemon, her nights were spent reliving moments throughout her life. Snippets of time that complied her existence, collecting and organizing themselves in broken order, flashed before her every time her conscious mind gave into the darkness.

Some memories were sweet, full of joy. Others were sad, showing those she had lost over the years. Then there were the memories that clawed at her soul, the pain ripping her apart from the inside out. Those nights were when she woke up with tears, scorching heat in her throat, stones in her stomach, coated in beads of sweat, and the beautiful distant song in her ears, beckoning her to come back, to come home …

* * *

Alistair's rose was blood-red in the heightened light. The young man slowly turned the stem between his thumb, index, and middle fingers. It was strange to see his hands without their usual gauntlet covering. His palms were rough and calloused from his years of barn work and training, his right from gripping his sword, his left from bracing his shield.

Even then, he held the rose so gently, as if it were his most precious possession in that moment. He was having trouble making eye contact with her, his face already giving his nervousness and slight embarrassment away. Their fingers touched as he offered the beautiful flower to her, and her skin tingled happily …

* * *

Bryce Cousland laughed as two children ran at him with little wooden swords. The boy had a mop of dark auburn hair on the top of his head, blades of grass giving shocking lines of green among the darkness of his hair. Fergus was stronger than her, thin and wiry, but Sophie never let that stop her. Her big brother was the one who pushed her, the unspoken competition between them setting the bar to be the best they could.

Father dropped to his knees, pretending to be struck down by his two little brave warriors. His hair was a shade lighter than Fergus's, his face holding so many fewer lines. The shock of his pale blue eyes always struck her. Sophie envied her father's eyes because of how much beauty they held behind them. Of course, she would never admit that out loud to the man; he would have laughed and shrugged the comment away. But if she could see through those eyes, feel what those eyes held, maybe then she would fully understand her father …

* * *

Blood filled her mouth. She fought to catch her breath, straightening up. Oghren stood a short distance away from her, commenting again how he didn't think it was possible for someone with her abilities to learn what he knew. Rogues weren't meant to be berserkers. It took force, power. Only warriors could truly master the skill. The blood turned dark as the dirt of the ground absorbed it. Wiping her mouth, she stood to face him again. She would learn the dwarf's specialty, even if it killed her. There was nowhere for her anger to go; her rage boiled under the surface of her consciousness, threatening to destroy her. An outlet was her only option, or she would die …

* * *

The dark stains on her mother's leather armor told her enough. Bryce gasped in pain as she knelt beside him, her mother's hands and her own pressing against the gash in his side. So much blood seeped through her fingers as her tears blinded her. She had to help him, had to do _something_. She couldn't leave them, not again. She would get her parents to safety, see them through the seemingly endless attack from that bastard Howe's men …

* * *

She lied in a simple bed, her hair matted to her forehead. Exhaustion was overtaking her, but in her arms she held a soft, warm bundle of blanket. Immediately, she recognized a tiny version of her husband's nose poking from the folds. Sophie smiled, placing the tip of her pinky finger on that nose. A sweet grunt came from the baby as he smacked his lips, settling into his blankets once more. Alistair sat on the edge of the bed, leaning his head to hers as the bundle in his own hands let out a small yawn. The man beamed, looking down at his two precious boys.

He kissed her before placing his lips on the tops of the boys' heads, planting a kiss among the wisps of platinum blonde hair. She joked that they would look everything like their father; and she was perfectly content with that. Except for the eyes, her own father's eyes looked at her from her infant sons' faces.

It was there, in that moment, that she knew the two of them could never be happier. In their arms they held their redemption. A chance to begin a new life, full of promise and happiness, was here with them, in the breath of their sons. Wynne said the Maker blessed them that day. Somehow, the woman knew her old mage friend was telling the truth …

* * *

The pain that put her under ebbed away slowly, as if seeping out of her body. Her consciousness struggled to be pulled away from the images her mind held, to free herself from the pain much worse than that of the one coming from her physical self. The Warden-Commander had endured more physical pain than she could remember in her life. Given the choice, she would take physical pain thousands of times worse to avoid feeling the searing pain in her heart.

Alistair's voice was quiet. She was sure she had imagined him before she dropped to the ground. They were fighting a group of rage demons. How they appeared in the midst of snowy trees were not her concern, but they had to be eliminated. Pain her chest stopped her attack on such a demon, and for a brief moment, she saw the face of her amazing husband. A part of her knew he would be the last person he would picture before she died, but he looked so exhausted … his skin pale and a steady drip of blood seeping into the pure white snow beside him. Small beads of red stretched across his neck, but he hardly seemed to notice it.

His eyes had cut into hers. Wanting to reach out, she suddenly found her body refused to move. She tried to utter his name before the darkness overtook her, bringing the images before her.

Now, she was on her back, and her pain was gone. She could sense someone above her, rough, cold fingers touching her cheek lightly. Hearing her husband's voice say his name did nothing to comfort her. Demons could manifest perfect impersonations of those you cared about. The woman knew that better than most. She had to be sure.

Risking a slight movement of her arms, her forearm felt the bite of something sharp beside her. She was uncertain how many were in the space with her, but she would fight if she had to. There were no options at this point. It took her a moment to realize it was a broken arrow she clutched in her hand, pressing it firmly into the neck of the man who looked like the king of Ferelden.

His blond hair was slightly longer than she remembered. It had been an ongoing joke between the two of them that Alistair would be more likely to have a relationship with his hair than another woman. His "beautiful locks and beautiful woman" were the most important things in the world to him. Water darkened the usual dirty blond hair, and it plastered to his forehead. There was a new trail of blood coming from his neck where the arrowhead dug into the sensitive skin under his Adam's apple.

It wasn't the question she asked. The hesitation, the cloudy pain in his eyes was how she knew this man she was close to killing was indeed her husband. Something in her knew that she had tried, more than once, to end him. But the pain in his eyes was caused from more than the question she asked … it was the doubt she had in him that cut deeper than any blade she took to him.

That was enough for the tears to finally overwhelm her.

For two years, she only imagined how she would feel being in Alistair Theirin's arms again. She never imagined it would be so painful.


End file.
